


Stranded

by ThePreciousHeart



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Isolation, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/ThePreciousHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford discovers that he is stuck on Earth and stumbles across a friendly man named Arthur one drunken night. Those who find the two hidden song references win a cupcake (because cookies are overrated).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranded

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to Douglas Adams.

After packing up his belongings in his satchel, straightening his clothes so that he didn’t look undesirable to anyone he might need a ride from, and locking the door to his flat, it was time for Ford Prefect to leave Planet Earth for good. As he cast one last glance over at his flat over his shoulder before turning off the lights, he didn’t think that he would miss the place very much. Earth was one of the less exciting planets he’d been to- it was always a shame when he was dropped off somewhere like that. Because of his disinterest in the planet, it hadn’t taken Ford very long to reach an amendment of the Guide’s current entry on Earth. He added “Mostly” in front of “Harmless” and then went through the Guide in search of a planet where he could have some fun at last.

       Ford walked down the sidewalk outside of his- no, it wasn’t his any longer, _the_ flat with his head down and his feet dragging him slowly forward. He had lived a solitary, pedestrian lifestyle on Earth. Cars he had never really trusted, and he had soon come to realize that humans were the dullest species that he had ever encountered. They had irritating habits such as repeating dreadfully obvious facts over and over, and the majority of the population was so close-minded that they did not believe the life forms existed on any other planet. (This also made them come off as rather pretentious.) As a result, Ford had hesitated to make any acquaintances on Earth, and therefore wasn’t sorry to be leaving it.

       He ended his stroll by a wide stretch of trees outside of town, by which point his pace quickened to break through to a hilly clearing on the other side. In isolation, Ford took out his Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic from his satchel, a gadget that would have raised a few stares back in public, and held it aloft, checking for signals. He’s been promised to only stay on Earth for two weeks before being whisked back to a more pleasing environment. If any flying saucer was to come by Earth, today would be a good day for it to do so.

       The Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic was silent, just as it had been back at the flat. Ford shook it and frowned, wondering if it was malfunctioning. It was true, Earth was an abnormally quiet planet, lacking frequent visitations from other places in the Galaxy. But Ford was expecting a ride today- someone had to know he was on Earth- and the signals from outer space should have been stronger out here away from town, or at least existent, now that there was nothing to interfere with them. For now, Ford told himself that it was nothing to fret about. Flying saucers were more likely to come at night, when interplanetary tourists were looking for a party. He sat down on the grass and relaxed, the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic in his lap, content that someone would come along and notice him hitchhiking sooner or later.

       As the afternoon approached and there was still no sign of any available rides, Ford took the _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ out of his satchel and stroked the cover, reading the large, friendly letters over and over. DON’T PANIC. There was no cause for alarm. Ford hadn’t expected anyone to come along right away anyway- that was why he had locked the flat back in town instead of leaving it permanently, just in case.

         But still, someone up there had to intercept his signals from the Earth’s surface…

       Night fell, and Ford stayed out until two in the morning, feverishly checking the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic. It stayed silent by his side all night. Finally, Ford had had enough and packed up to head back to the flat that he had thought just this morning that he would never be seeing again. Dejection took over him, though Ford ignored it. Tomorrow would be another opportunity to leave the planet, only one day late. Hell, the signal might even wake him up in the night an hour later.

       Sadly, there was no peep from the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic all night, and the next day Ford locked up his flat and started over again in a manner similar to the prior day. Once again, he was out of luck.

       The next day proceeded in the same fashion.

       And the next day…

       And the next…

       And another day.

       Eventually Ford stopped going out each day and took to simply watching the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic out of the corner of his eye, in the protection of the flat.

       And before he knew it, the days had turned into a month.

       When Ford woke up one morning and realized how much time he had unwillingly spent on Earth, he wasn’t sure if he should be angry or upset, and also wondered if now was a good time to start panicking. Two weeks and one month was longer than Ford had expected he would stay on Planet Earth. It was longer than he had _wanted_ to stay, for that matter. Why had no one come along to pick him up yet? He signaled to the heavens every night, eagerly scanning the sky for flying saucers. Had he simply been forgotten about?

       Ford checked his Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic, but there was no longer any question about it- the thing was dead. Kaput. And yet it was still in working condition. It appeared that after Ford had been dropped off on Earth, all access to the blue-and-green planet had been restricted. _Fine time to do that and not tell me,_ Ford thought sullenly. _Just when I need to get out of here._

Now that realization regarding his situation had dawned, Ford was determined not to spend another day alone with his silent device. He wouldn’t go to the hill again, either. There had to be somewhere in this blasted town where the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic would get a signal. He couldn’t have been abandoned like this.

       The day followed with Ford trudging all over the town, lugging the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic along with him under his jacket (passersby who took notice of him wondered why he was hugging himself so oddly) and searching desperately for a signal of any sort. Once in a while, the device would briefly seem to flicker, and Ford’s hopes were raised only to come crashing to the ground when he realized it was nothing. He traversed the town for so long that it was dark and his feet hurt by the time he decided to give up. Other than the false alarms, there had been no sign of rescue from the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic all day. Ford was in a bitter mood by the time his weary feet brought him to a pub’s welcoming light. He didn’t hesitate before walking through the front door. Ford had learned on one of his first days on Earth that Earth didn’t have much to offer in the way of alcoholic drinks- at least nothing as strong as Ford’s favorite, the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster- but after wandering through the town all day feeling alternately lost and lonely and then angry at the people who had dumped him here in the first place, Ford felt he could really use a drink, no matter how weak it was. Once inside, he sat down at the bar and ordered the strongest drink on the menu, which he got refilled several times over the course of the night.

       Somewhere down at the further recesses of the pub, a young man was desperately trying to interest a heavily makeup’ed woman with his poor excuse for small talk. “Er, I guess it’s all right that you’ve never been interested in gardening,” he was saying, “that’s fine; it’s always been just a hobby for me, nothing too serious, just something I do now and again. As a matter of fact, I have a much bigger passion for tea... Do you drink tea often?” he asked, looking sideways at the woman. “I usually have about four cups a day… Do you have a favorite brand?”

       “Excuse me,” the woman said stiffly, getting up from her chair. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.” She didn’t even bother to mask her departure, heading straight for the front door. Arthur leaned his elbows on the table and sighed, staring despondently down at the dark wood. That proved it- he truly was hopeless with the opposite sex. Was it what he had said? Or perhaps the fact that he rarely drank alcohol made him unattractive… But surely one couldn’t argue with tea.

         As the night went on, more people clambered into the pub, most of them crowding around a now elegantly wasted Ford at the bar. None of the newcomers joined Arthur, alone at his table, though he tried to smile at everyone who walked in. The fact that people were ignoring him didn’t bother him as much as the fact that all of the women had dates did. When the bartender came over to Arthur’s table and bean to wipe it down, Arthur figured it was time for him to leave. He knew when he wasn’t wanted. “Ah well, better luck next time,” he muttered to himself under his breath, making his way towards the door.

       Just then a fight broke out by the bar, and Arthur froze in place, watching in horror as several drunk men ganged up on each other. An unfamiliar man with wiry ginger hair and wide eyes that conveyed exactly how plastered he was was in the very thick of the fray and getting the worst of the blows. Arthur instantly felt like helping the poor man, but he had never been one for fighting. He turned away as the bartender broke it up, determined by finger-pointing who had started it all, and then banged the door shut in the act of throwing the upstart out of the pub. When Arthur looked back, the ginger man had vanished. He shuddered at the suddenly nasty atmosphere and hastily stepped past the rest of the men nursing their wounds, ending up in the cool comfort of the open air at last.

         Ford slowly crawled up from the pavement upon which he had collapsed, first checking his satchel to make sure that nothing inside had been damaged before assessing his bodily injuries. His knees and palms stung from falling on the sidewalk, and his ribs ached from the punches that the pub’s inhabitants had thrown. One eye was smarting so badly he figured it had to close up eventually, and there was blood coming from his nose. Ford gingerly wiped it away, thanking Zarquon that not only had his nose not been broken, but also that his blood was red just like the humans’ and attracted no attention. He leaned back against the brick wall, his head spinning with drink and his explosive fury subsiding.

     Upon exiting the pub, Arthur immediately looked for the short ginger man, casting about with his eyes before finally finding him reclining against a nearby wall with his head tilted upwards. Arthur went over to him and cleared his throat awkwardly, noticing the bloodstains around his neckline. “Hullo…”

       The man’s eyes flashed open, and Arthur was irrationally confronted by fear. “What do you want?” the man asked in a rough voice.

         “Er… I thought you might need some assistance,” Arthur said, feeling self-conscious. “I saw you get beaten up in there, in the pub, and… I wanted to know if you’re okay?” The man’s eyelids fluttered, and he stared up at Arthur in a strange way that made him feel small. “This isn’t the worst fight I’ve ever been in,” he informed him in a hazy tone, pinching his nose to stop the flow of blood.

         “You know,” said Arthur, trying to be helpful, “if you hold your head up like that, the blood will run into your throat and make you sick… so you’d better not do that…” Ford gave the unfamiliar man a dark stare, even though he could already feel his stomach churning (though probably due to the copious amount of drinks he’d had rather than blood from his nose). He wished suddenly that he’d been more careful back in the pub, and wondered how he could detach the human from his side.

       Seeing that the man had not said anything to him in response, Arthur tried again to help out. “Look, I don’t know if you have a car, but if you’re hurt I could drive you to the doctor’s…”

         “No,” snapped Ford emphatically. “No doctors.” He didn’t want to risk anyone inspecting his body, only to possibly discover that he wasn’t human.

         “Well,” Arthur backtracked, spotting the dazed, drunken gleam in the man’s eye and noticing how much he was trembling, “I could at least drive you home.” His hand shot into his pocket, searching for his elusive car keys. The man smiled, and Arthur was momentarily disconcerted by the craziness in his expression, as if he was about to plunge his teeth into Arthur’s neck.

         “I’ve been trying to get home for a month now,” Ford said.

       Arthur gulped and just barely managed to draw the keys from his pocket. “Where do you live? What’s your name?”

       “M’name’s Ford Prefect,” Ford slurred, and then pointed at the sky, trying to pick out the exact location of Betelgeuse. “I live right about-“

       “Ford?” Arthur interrupted incredulously.

       “What?” Ford took his eyes off of the star-filled sky.

       “Your name is _Ford Prefect?”_ Arthur blurted. “As in the car?”

       Suddenly it dawned on Ford why the people renting out his flat had looked so confused when he had given his name. He wanted to slap himself. _That’s what I get for mistaking the dominant life form…_

“Yes, like the car,” Ford said coldly. “It was a bloody stupid mistake. What’s _your_ name?”

       “My name is Arthur Dent,” said Arthur, offering Ford his hand. Ford took it in a fierce grip and shook it before stumbling and nearly knocking Arthur over. He grabbed Ford’s shoulder to steady both Ford and himself. “Goodness… Come along with me, then.”

       As Arthur led Ford off towards his waiting car, he asked again, “Where do you live?” Ford in his intoxicated state, almost told Arthur the name of his planet before recognizing the difference between “Where do you live?” and “Where is your home?” He told Arthur the address of his flat while Arthur opened the passenger door of the car for him and helped him buckle his seatbelt (not only was Ford unfamiliar with such instruments, but his hand-eye coordination had been significantly reduced from the drinks he’d imbibed). Soon Arthur had started the car and put it in Drive. It shot off down the street, and though Arthur wasn’t driving very quickly Ford felt the first strong waves of motion sickness. He groaned, remembering suddenly why he had denounced everything to do with automobiles after his first ride in one.

       “Are you all right?” Arthur asked, glancing over at Ford’s pasty face. A second later a sickly expression crossed Ford’s countenance, and Arthur, realizing what was to happen, cursed lightly and yelled, “Roll down the window if you’re-“ But it was too late, and Arthur was filled with disgust as Ford bent over, heaving, and vomited the contents of his churning stomach all over the floor of Arthur’s station wagon. Arthur very briefly shut his eyes before gazing firmly ahead at the road before him.

       When the car came to a red light, Ford had recovered and was wiping his mouth. “I’m so sorry…”

         “Please roll the window down,” Arthur mumbled, and then had to show a fumbling Ford how to do it. Thankfully, Ford didn’t throw up again on the rest of the car ride, but Arthur was no happier than if he had. Finally he pulled up at Ford’s building, and had to endure several agonizing minutes of Ford stumbling his way through a drunken apology for what he had done to Arthur’s car. “It’s all right,” Arthur kept murmuring, and was relieved when Ford finally let go and weaved his way to the door. He sped up and drove away, trying not to think about the mess in the seat beside him.

         Ford dragged himself up the stairs inside the building and spent an hour longer than he should have searching for his keys before unlocking the door at last and barging into his flat. He threw himself on the bed and promptly passed out in his clothes.

         The next morning, Ford woke to discover that his body was dappled in bruises, and when he looked at his face in the bathroom mirror he found that one of his eyes had swollen up and gone black. Prodding it, the pain was so great that tears welled up in Ford’s eyes. He sank to the floor, holding his throbbing head in his hands, as the tears abruptly changed from those of pain to those of sorrow. Ford sat on the bathroom floor and wept silently, an act he rarely committed, before pulling himself together. There was no use now in pitying himself and his situation. He had to face the facts- he was stuck on Earth for now, and wasn’t sure when his rescue would come. Fortunately, there were some humans who were friendly to such indisposed galactic hitchhikers as himself, as the memory of the kindly man named Arthur Dent who had driven Ford to his flat the night before swam through his head. He, and possibly others like him, would have to do as friends for now. As for Ford’s survival, he would have to think of a cover story that he could pull off and start mingling with society if he wanted to reach out to others.

       Ford got up from the floor, reassured that he could wait for his eventual rescue, and went to bed for the rest of the day to sleep off his hangover, his hand curled protectively around the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic and his ears pricked attentively, even in repose.


End file.
